I Have Loved You Dearly
by Hans the bold
Summary: Continuing the story line begun in “Walking Away” and “And the Band Played On”, the Camden family faces a growing crisis. Rated PG-13 for its attempt at a realistic portrayal of a disintegrating family.
1. PART 1

This is a continuation of my previous two 7th Heaven stories "Walking Away" and "And the Band Played On". I think it needs to be repeated from my last story introduction that though this series of works follows directly from a point in the very disturbing episode "Ay Carumba!", it diverges from what we have all seen on the show since that time as I try to present the Camdens in what I feel is a more realistic light given the behavior of the characters, particularly Annie and Eric, in the last season and a half. Again and as always, my thanks go out to all the folks at the 7th Heaven boards at Mighty Big TV (http://www.mightybigtv.com). I must also thank all of those of you who have been so kind as to leave reviews here; it's nice to know that people are reading these things.  
  
The direction this story line is following is rather up in the air, though I do have a broad sort of ending in mind for the whole thing. As in the previous two installments (which you probably should read before you tackle this one, so you know what is going on here), my goal is to comment on 7th Heaven and some of its recent problems (particularly the attitude of the writers that spousal abuse and child abuse are not subjects to be treated seriously, and that menopause is a way to portray women as irrational and under the total control of their hormones) as well as to try and show that there is potential in this series for good quality, serious drama.  
  
The title of this installment comes from the song "The Last Farewell", sung by Roger Whittaker. It deals rather poignantly with being apart from a loved one, which I believe suits this story in more ways than one.  
  
As always, none of these characters are mine; they belong to the WB or the producers of the show or somebody like that.  
  
* * *  
  
PART 1  
  
Ruthie Camden was a happy girl.  
  
She was a smart girl too, so she knew she was happy. She even knew why.  
  
It was her family, of course. Family was important to her. Family kept her company and kept her clothed and fed, and as a smart girl she realized that this was important. So she was happy.  
  
Because her family existed for her, really. This was clear to Ruthie Camden. They were there to give her things, to make her comfortable, and to teach her how to get what she wanted out of the world. Family was a place to learn and to practice what she knew she would eventually use in the outside world.  
  
And so she watched them, all of them. She kept mental notes on all of them. She learned their weaknesses and learned how to exploit them.  
  
She knew her sisters Mary and Lucy best of all. They weren't that complicated, not really. They were insecure and thought only about boys. This didn't make sense to Ruthie; weren't you supposed to think about other things when you grew up?  
  
Maybe that's why Lucy had left.  
  
Not that Ruthie minded; she was surprised at first at this, because she remembered that it had hurt when Mary had gone away. But when she lay alone in the bedroom at night, looking over at the empty bed of her sister, Ruthie had found herself wondering just what all the fuss was about. Lucy had gone, but Lucy didn't matter. She was just Lucy, after all. All those moods and tears and anxieties about boys and boyfriends, and all that talk about being a minister that she hadn't had the guts to actually do.  
  
Like Mary. With her it was always about who. Who do I love? Who will I marry? Robbie? Wilson? Since she had come home she had already tried to call Wilson, and when he had called her back there had been that big fight with Mom. And there was this jealousy thing over Robbie, since Robbie had this new girlfriend.  
  
Robbie. There was the kind of boy Ruthie liked. But it wasn't like they might think, though. No, she liked Robbie because Robbie could be manipulated, easily. She had seen this right away. He looked at Joy in her tight pink pants and he gave her everything. He was like Mary and Lucy because he believed in the big lie about love, and that made him weak.  
  
Weak. Ruthie smiled now, over at Mary. They were sitting on the promenade and Mary had bought her ice cream and was talking about Buffalo, about life at the Colonel's, and Ruthie was making a point to remember it all, because someday she could use it against Mary to get what she wanted.  
  
Or maybe just to make Mary squirm. Now that Lucy and all her insecurities were gone, Ruthie would have to entertain herself with Mary instead.  
  
That would be easy enough.  
  
* * *  
  
He got home late. There had been a lot of work to do, things he had let slip, and he had spent much of the morning trying to find a counselor for Annie. They probably all needed one, he figured, including himself. The way Lucy had left was hard on all of them and it wasn't good to keep it all in.  
  
This wasn't easy for Eric Camden to admit, not even to himself. He had always seen his family, his wife and children, as a standard that the rest of the world could strive for. Not perfect, of course, but good. They talked to one another, worked things out. There was a place, a role, for each of them, and he had watched with pride as the kids grew up.  
  
We did right by them.  
  
So what happened? What went so wrong? Was it hubris?  
  
There was food cooking when he arrived. He recognized it: meatloaf, and vegetables boiling in a pot. Simple and quick; Annie must have had a long day at the school.  
  
He took a moment to enjoy the aroma, then walked to his office to set down his briefcase. There was a faint smell of smoke in the living room, easy to ignore, and when he emerged from his office again Annie was in the kitchen. She smiled at him and he took her into his arms and kissed her.  
  
"Smells good," he said.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She kissed him now. Her lips, her breath, were warm, and she seemed relaxed in his arms.  
  
"How was your day?" he asked.  
  
"Good. It was a good day."  
  
He felt himself calm, relax. He had been worried, especially after what had happened last night with Mary. Worried about her, about the kids. But after she had promised to let him find her a counselor, had promised to go, Eric had felt hope again. The menopause had been hard on her, on him, on the kids. But menopause would pass, he knew. If he could just not let it bother him it would pass. And then she would be happy again, like she was before.  
  
Like she seemed to be now. Maybe promising to go to the counselor had itself helped. Maybe she wouldn't need to go much, just a few times to get her feelings about Lucy and herself sorted out, and then she would be his loving wife again and they could focus their energies on finding their daughter and making her know that she was loved, that they, all of them, loved her.  
  
For the first time in more than a week, Eric Camden allowed himself an honest smile.  
  
#  
  
They ate; he and Annie and Mary and Simon and Ruthie and the twins. Robbie was out with Joy, and Matt was at the library. But there were enough of them and they were all hungry. And there was small talk, too, about their days, and it was good. After the meal the kids dispersed and he went upstairs to change into a more comfortable set of clothes.  
  
It was in the hallway that he first noticed.  
  
Matt, Mary, Simon, Ruthie, the twins.  
  
Pictures. On the wall just outside the master bedroom.  
  
Pictures he had passed a million times.  
  
Matt, Mary, Simon, Ruthie, the twins.  
  
And an empty hook.  
  
Had it been one of the other children he wouldn't have thought twice about it. A picture might fall and the frame might break, and so it would be necessary to leave it down until the frame could be replaced. But this one, no.  
  
Without thinking he stepped back into the bedroom, looked at the counter of the dresser.  
  
Mary, Matt, Simon, the twins, Ruthie.  
  
His mouth was dry. He walked downstairs, to the section of wall near the front door.  
  
The twins, Ruthie, Matt, Mary, Simon.  
  
His office.  
  
Matt, Simon, Mary, Ruthie, the twins.  
  
And in the family portrait on his desk, a figure missing, cut out.  
  
Someone was at the door. He looked up.  
  
Annie. She was watching him.  
  
He took the portrait, held it up where she could see it.  
  
She nodded.  
  
Words escaped him. He opened his mouth, tried to say something, but there was nothing. No words, no sound. And as he stood there, just facing her, he saw her face form a smile.  
  
A kind smile. A loving smile.  
  
"It's all right now," she said. "I've done it. It's all right."  
  
Words finally came in the sudden confusion.  
  
"What? Annie, what did you ...?"  
  
Annie's smile didn't fade as she stepped toward him. "We had to, don't you see? I saw it all, Eric. It's so clear. It wasn't you and it wasn't me. It wasn't Mary, last year. It was all so simple, right there, but we didn't see it."  
  
His lips were parted. He felt the air rushing over them, suddenly, as he spoke again.  
  
"What?"  
  
Annie looked up, into his eyes. Her own were sparkling, animated.  
  
"It was her, Eric. It was that girl. I figured it all out. She was the reason. But I've gotten rid of her. She's gone and she'll never hurt us again. It'll be like it was before."  
  
A memory came to him. The smell of smoke, just a bit of it, in the living room. He rushed past her, rushed to the fireplace, knelt there, thrusting the screen aside.  
  
Ashes there. With trembling hands he reached into them.  
  
Ashes. Then something more, something small, its surface smooth. He drew it out.  
  
The corner of a photograph. The flame had not quite consumed it. He didn't need the rest of it to know who it had been a picture of.  
  
"Oh, my God."  
  
He stood, his hands blackened with the ash. And Annie was there, facing him.  
  
"You'll see, Eric. It's going to be all right now. She's gone. She was why we fight, why we're unhappy. But I've burned her up, and she's all gone now. It's all right."  
  
It came out then, suddenly. Words. His words.  
  
"My God, Annie! What did you do? What did you do?"  
  
He had never thought she could hit this hard. But she did, her small fist connecting with his face, with his eye, with the bridge of his nose. He heard and felt a distinct "pop", and then saw only a red haze of pain as he gasped and stumbled back.  
  
Air fought to get in as he struggled to draw a breath.  
  
And then she was holding him, pressing his face against her bosom, holding him tight, the pressure against his broken nose making him moan with agony. And she was speaking as she held him, as she rocked him back and forth.  
  
"It's all right, Eric .... I'm here .... I know you're afraid, but it's all right. I've made her go away and it'll be all right. It'll be like it was, when we were happy .... It'll be like it was ...." 


	2. PART 2

PART 2  
  
It is never quite how you expect it, when it happens. Even when you see it coming, even when all the warnings are there, the moment, the event itself, is always a surprise. There is no drama here, no glory. Only shock and fear and pain and yes, that no small measure of disbelief that it cannot be you, cannot be here, cannot be now. Cannot be them who hits you.  
  
But it is.  
  
And then you know. You know what those before you know, those into whose tragic group you now number. And you know the truth that it can be anyone, that gender or race or money will not protect you.  
  
Now you understand them, these others.  
  
Now you understand, deep inside, why they do what they do. Now you understand why they may not go for help right away, why they may hide their bruises and their terror, why they may insist that it was only that once, that it was my fault anyway because I did something wrong. Now you understand, because it is you now. Not Hollywood, not a script where the good guys always win. No. It is you and this person who you have tied your life to, who is a part of you, like it or not.  
  
This person who has now hit you.  
  
#  
  
Realization came slowly through the pain.  
  
Annie. Hit. Me.  
  
She was holding him now, still, caressing his hair, her voice soft and loving as she told him it was all right, that it would be all right. And in his mind's eye, Eric saw only that bit of a picture, that corner, singed by the flame, that had once held the image of his daughter.  
  
Of their daughter.  
  
How could she?  
  
Annie drew back. There were tears streaking down her face now, and she smiled at him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Eric," she said. "But it's all right now. I've made it all right. We're all going to be all right now, you'll see."  
  
He did not answer. At last she took his hand in hers.  
  
"Come."  
  
He went. She took him upstairs and as she did they passed Mary.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"He's all right, honey," Annie said.  
  
She took him to their bedroom, laid him down on the bed, then said something about an ice pack and left, closing the door behind her. A moment passed, then another.  
  
Annie. Hit. Me.  
  
His head began to clear through the pain. No, no, she wouldn't. His Annie wasn't like that. She was kind and loving and the mother of his children. He could trust her. She wouldn't hit him.  
  
Wouldn't.  
  
This couldn't ... no, it wasn't.  
  
His nose and face throbbed.  
  
Oh, God. No.  
  
Annie. Hit. Me.  
  
He had a sudden spasm of terror, a sudden moment of panic that she would come back, that it would happen again. And he gasped in fear at the sound of the door.  
  
Something cold, against his face. He winced.  
  
"There. Is that better?"  
  
He took the ice pack, held it. He opened his other eye and looked at her.  
  
She was sitting, there on the bed, close. She was watching him. Her eyes were bright, her face still smiling with love. But as he looked, Eric saw nothing that was her. He knew her face, knew by memory every line, every feature. It was more familiar to him than his own. And this was her face, was Annie, but it wasn't.  
  
Who are you? he thought.  
  
#  
  
Later, she slept.  
  
Eric lay awake, the pain burning in his face.  
  
It was quiet in the Camden house.  
  
What had she done?  
  
All the pictures, gone. She had cut away her own daughter. Everything that Lucy had been, everything that she had represented. She had burned them.  
  
He tried to remember Lucy's face, her smile. She had had a beautiful smile, a happy smile. When she smiled he had always felt the tension melt away, because of the beauty of her smile.  
  
But now she was gone, and Annie had tried to destroy what there was of her that remained.  
  
No. Annie wouldn't do that. Annie would never do that. Annie loves her kids like nothing else in the world. Annie loves me.  
  
I have to work this out. I have to make this make sense.  
  
He tried without success until morning.  
  
#  
  
Morning.  
  
Fatigue and pain. The ice pack had helped a little, but he hadn't slept much. There was work to do, down at the church, though it was hard to think about that now.  
  
Now.  
  
As he looked into the mirror, he knew his nose was broken. His left eye was purple, swollen, and the swelling extended to the bridge of his nose. He had known it right away, in fact, the second she had hit him.  
  
I need a doctor.  
  
Why didn't you go down to the emergency room last night?  
  
And tell them what?  
  
He reached up, touched at the bruising, winced. And he knew that he hadn't gone last night for the same reason he was hesitating now; he was afraid to leave her. For himself, and for the kids.  
  
You have to go.  
  
What if she doesn't let you?  
  
He trembled. I can't hit her back. I can't hit her.  
  
#  
  
In the end he went, telling her that he was going to work and then driving down to the hospital and walking into the emergency room and sitting quietly until they were able to see him. Because there wasn't an emergency, he told himself. It wasn't that bad. She had only hit him once. 


	3. PART 3

PART 3  
  
Eric had gone to work. That was good. Eric needed to work. He was happier when he was at work. And he would come home from work and they would be together. That would be good, too, because she needed him. As long as he was with her the danger out there, the uncertainty, would be kept at bay.  
  
She wasn't teaching today, so she stayed home. That was good, too. She loved being at home where it was safe.  
  
Because it was safe now. Everything was quiet, peaceful.  
  
She felt good.  
  
#  
  
Because it had felt good. As she took the morning to clean and play with Sam and David, Annie reflected on this. It had felt good to take action, to make the change. It had been hard to do, burning those things, those pictures, but somewhere deep inside it had felt good to do it too, like there was a terrible pressure in her soul that only the flames could relieve.  
  
David knocked something over. Annie smiled at him.  
  
The rage within her was gone. She was calm.  
  
It had been the right thing to do.  
  
She wished she hadn't had to hit Eric, though. He was her husband and you weren't supposed to hit your husband. But it had happened so suddenly, like she wasn't thinking when she did it, and it had felt good, like all the anger and hate that was inside her was gone now because she had done it.  
  
She noted that her right hand was trembling.  
  
She closed it into a fist, and it stopped.  
  
Sam giggled. He had a toy truck in his hands.  
  
Annie swallowed, smiled lovingly at her two young sons. They were good boys; such little trouble. And now that Mary was home there would always be someone here to take care of them, even when she had to go out.  
  
They would be safe.  
  
She looked down at her fist. Her arm was tense and she tried to relax it.  
  
It proved more difficult than she thought.  
  
Everything is fine, she told herself.  
  
* * *  
  
The second son wondered if the rest of them felt like he did. There had been a time, not that long ago, when he had looked forward to going home, when it had been fun to play and fun to talk and fun to try new projects. He remembered having friends then, other boys he could do things with, who he knew were not so different from him.  
  
But they were gone now, his friends, and now life and school and home were complicated.  
  
Too complicated.  
  
He remembered her.  
  
She had been there, in high school, when he had started. He remembered how it had felt reassuring, knowing that she would be nearby. Even though he had tried never to show it it had still felt good, because she was pretty and popular and he knew, deep down inside, that he could go to her if he needed to, that she knew the way things were and that she would help him if he needed it. She was just that way.  
  
His sister.  
  
He had never really thought about all this before, not until now, when she had left so suddenly, and he remembered his last look at her, up in the garage apartment, when he had gone along with Ruthie and Matt in that stupid little game.  
  
God, he thought. Mom threw her out and then we did.  
  
What kind of family are we?  
  
* * *  
  
They had been, all those years ago, so different. One the rebellious, athletic tomboy, the other so emotional, so wanting to be popular, so petite and feminine. The first thought back now, to her sister. She remembered that birthday when she had given her the little locking diary, and remembered when they had fought over nothing important at all just before their parents had renewed their vows, and then had walked down the aisle in their torn bridesmaid dresses. She remembered later, the two of them laughing about it.  
  
She remembered too, the older, once tomboyish sister did, how her younger sister had stood up for her at the school, in those terrible days when it had all started to go wrong, how she had stood up and told the rest of the school that Mary was more than just the girl who had trashed the gym in a fit of stupid rage. Mary is good, she had said. I know her and I love her. I trust her.  
  
But the elder sister had betrayed that trust. She had lied and had not cared and had seen her younger sister as a rival and then as not even that, but as nothing at all. She had made promises to her sister and had not kept them, and even after she had been sent away and then had been sent back the older, rebellious sister had been unable to just go to the younger and tell her the truth: that she had been wrong, that she had betrayed her again and again and that it was unfair that their mother should play such favorites.  
  
And then the day had come, and it had been her, the older sister, who had had to watch the younger go. It had been she who heard the words.  
  
We are not growing, in this family. We are hiding from the world.  
  
It was her, now, this older, more rebellious sister, who so wanted to just hold the one who was gone and weep in her arms.  
  
* * *  
  
In the old days, he had always been able to track her down.  
  
This had been his responsibility. As the oldest son, it fell to him to protect the younger ones. From themselves, and from the dangers that the world presented. When she had almost made the mistake of irresponsible sex, it had been he who had figured it out, he who had stopped it.  
  
That time, and other times. He had been able to make the tough choices, the difficult choices, even when she was angry with him for it and even when it turned out he was wrong. He had always tried to see past what she wanted to what she needed, because that was what his father and his mother had taught him to do.  
  
He had always been able to find her.  
  
But there was no finding her now. She, his sister, was gone, He had searched harder than the others that evening, roaming Glen Oak, going to the homes of her old boyfriends, even to the trailer where that strange man she had once befriended at Halloween lived. But there had been nothing, no sign at all, and the eldest brother could not shake the nagging feeling that it was his fault, his failure, that had led to this. He had agreed to expel her from the garage apartment after promising that they would stand together against their mother's harsh edict.  
  
He remembered her last words to him, out there in the backyard, when he had gone to give in she had caught him in the lie.  
  
"You really believe that?"  
  
No.  
  
He was, this eldest son, the one who doubted most. Perhaps this was because he wanted to become a physician. He had known where to look for information when the word "menopause" first came up, and he had been watching, sometimes without realizing it, and there was, deep in the back of his mind, a place that knew and that doubted and that he denied was there, because this could not be happening, not in the Camden family.  
  
Never. 


	4. PART 4

PART 4  
  
One more thing to do.  
  
Just one, she promised, but it was hard. What was this feeling she had, this little voice that kept telling her no? Why wouldn't it go away?  
  
It will go away, she told herself, when you finish this. You know what is wrong. As long as there is a sign of her, they will remember. You have to get rid of her, all of her.  
  
But I am afraid. I can remember her inside of me. I can remember holding her in my arms, just a little thing in a pink blanket. She was a happy baby; I remember when she smiled at me and what her lips felt like against my breast as I nursed her.  
  
I don't want to be afraid.  
  
Stop it!  
  
It was later now. Annie's hands were trembling again. She was in the kitchen, the twins upstairs napping. Ruthie had just come home from school and she had gone up to do her homework.  
  
Annie tried to think the name. She could think it but she didn't know what it was. The girl. That girl.  
  
I remember her. She was so sweet.  
  
It was her it was her it was her it was her. All of it was her. You figured it out. You keep thinking that she was a good girl after all, but good girls don't run away. They don't abandon their families. They don't pretend to love their mother and then betray them.  
  
It was hard to think anymore; the calm of this morning had vanished and now it was all Annie could do to keep from screaming. You have to make the pain stop. You have to make it stop hurting. The more you think about it the more it will hurt.  
  
You have to do what you have to do.  
  
Upstairs.  
  
Now.  
  
Go.  
  
#  
  
She went, her feet feeling heavy as she climbed. Down the hall, to the room. Through the door.  
  
Ruthie was there, the end of her pencil bobbing as she wrote in her notebook. She looked up.  
  
"Hi, Mom."  
  
Ruthie. Thank God for Ruthie. Ruthie was her pillar, her support. Somehow Annie knew that she could rely on Ruthie. She smiled.  
  
"How's it coming?" she asked.  
  
"It's all right. Just math. It's not too hard."  
  
Annie nodded. "We need to do something," she said.  
  
"Sure. What's that?"  
  
Annie looked around the room. It wasn't so different from the last time she had come in. Two beds, two dressers. And things, too.  
  
Things. Danger.  
  
It's like before. You have to.  
  
"I need you to tell me which of these things are yours, and which are --"  
  
He voice cut out before she could say it.  
  
Ruthie was watching her, closely. There was silence for a moment. Then Ruthie smiled.  
  
"Lucy's?" she asked.  
  
Annie watched her, nodded.  
  
Strength. Ruthie is strong. Oh, I love you, my sweet daughter. Have I told you today how much I love you? The others don't understand yet, but you do. You can see that this is right, can't you? Because it is right, what we do here.  
  
Ruthie smiled again.  
  
"Sure," she said.  
  
* * *  
  
It hurt, still, but less now. They had set his nose and packed it with gauze, and had given him a prescription for the pain and sent him home. It wasn't a bad break; it would heal.  
  
He had lied, of course, when they had asked him how it had happened. I was kneeling down to get something and I turned at just the wrong time and someone was coming through the door and the doorknob hit me. I thought it was nothing until this morning. No big deal; accidents happen.  
  
Did they believe him?  
  
Maybe.  
  
Did God?  
  
He pulled into the driveway, turned off the motor and engaged the parking brake. It was hard to tell what God thought anymore.  
  
Robbie pulled up as he was getting out of the car. He stared.  
  
"Wow," he said. "What happened, Reverend?"  
  
Eric tried to smile.  
  
"Accident," he said. "I wasn't watching where I was going."  
  
Do you remember the course on counseling when you were studying for ministry? Do you remember what they told you?  
  
"You going to be all right?" Robbie asked.  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
Do you remember how they told you not to let people lie about this sort of thing? What they said about denial?  
  
They went in together, went upstairs. Robbie disappeared into his room; he probably had something tonight with Joy; it was Friday, after all.  
  
Do you remember what Friday nights used to be like here?  
  
There was noise from the girls' room. He stepped toward it and opened the door.  
  
#  
  
Annie there, with Ruthie. Sitting on what had been Lucy's bed, now only a stripped mattress. A garbage bag, filled, sat on the floor beside them. Ruthie was holding a necklace.  
  
"No, that's mine. I guess it got put on her side by mistake."  
  
Annie smiled. She looked up at him.  
  
He froze.  
  
He knew.  
  
No. No, no ....  
  
He almost spoke. But there was that look in his wife's eyes, that look that had been there yesterday, that look that always seemed to be there anymore, that look he didn't recognize. And he remembered her fist, so sudden, and he felt a tremor of fear run through him.  
  
Ruthie was watching him too.  
  
Think. Think!  
  
"Hello, dear," Annie said. She rose. The tremor of fear came again.  
  
"What's this?" he managed.  
  
"We're making more room for Ruthie," Annie said. "I think she's earned the right to have her own room, don't you?"  
  
He glanced at the full garbage bag. "What about ...?"  
  
She turned her head, following his gaze.  
  
"Don't worry about those things. I'll get rid of them so they won't hurt anyone."  
  
He parted his lips but no words came through the disbelief. Who are you? What? Why? Don't you remember her? Don't you love her? What's happened to you?  
  
No answers. But Annie was very close now, and he felt the sudden urge to flee.  
  
And then the thought came to him.  
  
And the words came too.  
  
"No. Wait ...."  
  
Annie's eyes widened, became a glare. He sensed as her body tensed. He spoke again, and with his words came a sick feeling in his gut.  
  
"Let me do it, Annie. I'll get rid of her things for you."  
  
She seemed to relax a bit, and she smiled. 


	5. PART 5

PART 5  
  
There was no choice, not for him.  
  
He had to think. It wasn't simple, this thing. It wasn't like a movie or a television show where the problem was only one thing and could be solved in an hour, where it happened to someone else and not to you. No. It was her, Annie. Not just a part of her but the complete her, what she was.  
  
He wanted to believe in menopause, to believe that it was just that simple and that it would go away in time, but this was more than that. Much much more. Menopause was hard, but it didn't make you hate your children. He was sure about that.  
  
But that wasn't the important thing right now. What was important now was to think, to do what had to be done. The important thing was to settle things down regarding Lucy, was to make sure the other kids were all right. Then he could approach Annie, could make sure she went to her appointments with the counselor, the way she had promised. Get her help so she could get through this.  
  
And that meant he would have to do other things, things he would never have thought he would have to do.  
  
Like this.  
  
He drove now, the back of his car filled with bags that held the possessions of his daughter. He had gone through her room, through everything, Ruthie at his side identifying things for him, claiming those that were her own, watching as he put the rest in bags; clothes, jewelry, shoes, books, personal things.  
  
Everything.  
  
And Annie sometimes appearing as he did, watching him from the door.  
  
I am a traitor and I am a liar, he thought now.  
  
#  
  
The church appeared ahead. He turned into the parking lot, parked in his reserved space by the back door. Shutting off the motor, he climbed out and opened the back doors, lifted the first bag and carried it to the back door of the church. Fumbling for his keys, he opened the door and stepped inside.  
  
There was a storeroom, seldom used, near his office. He lugged the bag there, unlocked the door, stepped inside and turned on the light. There was a lot of stuff there; old Christmas and Easter decorations, a few boxes, some boards and plywood.  
  
He worked as quickly as he could, bringing the bags inside, then tagging them as his, then moving some of the other things in the room aside and putting the bags behind them, out of sight. This done, he locked the door again and closed up the back door of the church, returning to his car.  
  
He sat for a moment before starting up the motor.  
  
On the seat beside him sat a small box. He had come upon it as he packed Lucy's things, had slipped it into his pocket while Ruthie's attention was on something else. Now he reached over and opened it.  
  
There were checks inside, unused. Lucy's New York account, set up for her college needs. His name was on the account too, and Annie's; it had seemed natural to do this, especially after what had happened with Mary. He had looked for the checkbook itself as he had bagged her things, then here at the church he had searched for it in the bag Annie had filled before he arrived.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Lucy must have taken it with her.  
  
He glanced at his watch. It was Friday. The bank should still be open.  
  
Eric Camden started his car, then backed out of his spot and drove in the direction of the bank. When he arrived he went to the ATM, withdrew several hundred dollars. Then, the cash in hand, he stepped into the lobby.  
  
It was quick; just fill out one of the deposit slips from the unused groups of checks and hand it and the cash to the teller. Then he asked for a current balance and a printout of recent activity from the account.  
  
The teller watched him as he scanned the printout.  
  
There. He indicated an entry with his finger.  
  
"Can you tell me where this check was cashed?"  
  
Later, as he left the bank and returned home, Eric Camden allowed himself a moment to relax. It wasn't a lot, but it was something.  
  
A first step, maybe. 


End file.
